


The Lone Rose

by NeverGoodbye



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Canon, Drama, F/M, Katniss' POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverGoodbye/pseuds/NeverGoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day of the Reaping, Katniss doesn’t arrive home in time from her hunting excursion with Gale in time to volunteer for Prim. She has no choice but to watch, along with her and Gale’s families, the televised coverage of the ceremonies and the ensuing arena competition. But although it is Prim and not Katniss that fights beside him, Peeta is no less intent on bringing her home alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reaping Gone Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> The plotlines roughly corresponds to those in the original book but are adapted for the story context. The story is still told from Katniss's POV. As always, a hearty thank you for my Beta Readers and to TrunksBordare for his encouragement! Comments are welcome! :D

_God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December.  
\- J. M. Barrie  
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The idea itself was so preposterous. Like Gale and I could actually run away and leave our old life behind for some unknown out there in the wilderness. Just forget about our responsibilities and leave. Right. I’m just about to voice these objections when Gale leans over and kisses me. It’s so sudden, so unexpected that it takes my breath away. His eyes are full of an inexpressible longing and fear and I don’t know what to say at first. Then, caught in the moment, I find myself saying, “Ok, let’s do it.”

His kiss has ignited something illicit inside me; a reckless, pure thrill of irresponsibility and pleasure. He cocks his head like I might be toying with him but I stand up and take his hand in mine. In a moment we are running, our bows slung across our shoulders and game bags thumping at our sides. We run as far as our legs and lungs will allow us. It’s as if the weight of what we’re doing dogs us with every step and the only answer is to get farther away from it. We run further and deeper into the woods than we’ve ever been before, and by the time we finally stop to catch our breath there is nothing that looks familiar to me anymore.

That’s when the stab of fear hits me. We have no spare clothing, no shelter, only our hunting supplies and since we have never been so far from the District 12 borders, we have no sense of what might lay out here or what direction to continue traveling in. My mind flashes a memory from a few years ago when we encountered a red-headed girl and her boy trying to escape from somewhere distant as well. They were caught by hovercraft before our very eyes as Gale and I hid in the rocks nearby. Would that be us now? How far would we get before someone alerted the Capitol that we were missing? My gut tells me that it wouldn’t be very far at all.

Gale seems to sense my unease and he helps me find a soft resting spot among the moss. There is silence between us as he begins to prep a small cooking fire and he roasts one of the rabbits we snared earlier. The smell of the cooking meat is intoxicating to my empty stomach and revolting at the same time because this is the meal I should be making for mother and Prim right now.

 _Prim._

“Oh, Gale, what are we doing?!” The thought of my gentle little sister, so young and so dependent on me almost brings me to tears. Gale too has younger siblings and a mother who would be utterly lost without him to provide for their family. I spare a glance toward him and the uneaten portion of rabbit he had served for himself. We were thinking the same thing and yet, we were both loathed to admit it. Going back meant facing the possibility that one, or even both of us, could be selected during the Reaping today, a fate worse than even starving slowly home in the Seam because it meant competing in this year’s Hunger Games. It had felt so good, so uninhibited for a few fleeting moments to feel and do something so wholly for ourselves. But it couldn’t last; we had to go home.

As it turns out, the task isn’t quite as simple as that. The summer day is bright and warm and there’s little in the way of tracks for us to follow back. We had run so blindly ahead that now, as we trudge through them on our return trip, our surroundings look even less familiar, if that was even possible. Gale takes the lead and through his guidance we finally manage to find the well-known chain link fence once more. The electric was off – as usual – and we casually pushed the broken mesh aside to slip through.

It was only upon being back in the streets of the district that I realize how late in the day it has become. It was well through the afternoon and the skies have started to take on that depressingly dark slate grey quality that signals the beginning of nightfall here. Had we really let the whole day fly by? Perhaps the most critical day of our year and we have wasted it in our rash excursion through the woods?

Gale walks me to my door, trying to keep to our usual routine. We stand hesitantly in front of each other for a moment before he leans down and kisses me briefly on the cheek. He doesn’t need to say anything. It occurs to me that though I was clueless to this intimacy between us before today that he – being two years older than me – may have already put more substantial thought into a future for us. I doubt there could be any real future out there in the woods, with only the two of us alone against the world. But there might be, however desolate that life was, here in the Seam. This single kiss held the promise of whatever may happen he’d be here beside me for it.

When I open the door, I fully expect berating from my mother for risking our family’s safety at the Reaping by not being present. Or, at the very least, some worry about my safety or disbelief at the reason I had been gone so long. But there is only silence to greet me. Mother is sitting in a chair beside the empty fireplace, a wholly vacant expression consuming all of her features.  My heart begins to beat faster as fear overtakes me. Prim is nowhere to be seen.

“Mother?” I ask as I approach the cold and empty stone cooking pit. I half-heartedly hold out the cooked rabbit but she doesn’t take it. “What’s going on? Where’s Prim?”

But in my heart of hearts I know there’s only one real reason she’d be absent on the evening of the Reaping. And whether the far-off quality comes from Mother’s voice or the sinking sense of reality in my own head, I barely hear her when she says, “She was chosen.” The world falls back further and for a moment I’m almost sure that this is a dream, or a nightmare, or I have been drugged because the Capitol agents really did catch us in the woods today. But somewhere around me is my mother’s voice and she tells me again what I already know, what is slowly becoming undeniable.

“Katniss, Prim was chosen at the Reaping today.”

***

The next thing I remember is pounding on Gale’s door. When he answers I can see in his eyes that he already knows and I practically collapse into his arms. They must take me inside and attempt to comfort me but I’m drifting in and out of conscious recollection. Mostly I’m crying, or heaving with sobs because my tears have run their course, and Gale is holding me. My words must be mostly unintelligible but what I’m trying to express somehow is grief at the loss, fear for Prim’s life, and most soul-crushingly of all, the guilt I feel at not being there to take her place. There is nothing Gale can say to ease my suffering so he just holds me close to him, stroking my hair and whispering reassurances in my ear.

I push away the bowl of stew they offer me even though it smells delicious and my stomach is an empty pit inside me. I can’t seem to stop the unending drone of guilt and regret that’s playing my mind. Ever since our father died in the coal mine explosion it has been my singular duty to protect Prim, whom I love above all in this world. But today, when she needed me the most, I wasn’t there for her. I could have volunteered to take her place. I could be on the train right now, one of the 24 selected tributes, hurling through space toward the Capitol and my near certain death. Instead it is Prim, so quiet and defenseless, caught in the middle of this all. The thought of her fighting in the arena – it is insanity.

My anger flares at the Capitol for putting us in this situation to begin with. It is barbaric and cruel to die as children for the entertainment of pampered Capitol citizens; a spectacle which for us is a constant reminder of the omnipresent power of the government to control the destiny of our lives. But if I am honest I know that my anger is mostly at myself. It was my own fault that I have failed her. I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. A new wave of hopelessness washes over me and I sincerely wish with all my being to have this day over. For anything that would allow me to exchanges places. A hundred times over I would sacrifice myself for her. _Wouldn’t I?_ I want to believe I would, but there is no way to know, now. The grief envelopes me.

When my mother arrives with sleep syrup from her stock of medicinal supplies I am too incoherent to realize what is happening. All I feel are the sharp prick of the needle and the powerful pull of sedative. As I slide under, my last thought is of the ironic motto the Capitol instills upon us, “May the odds be ever in your favor!” With a thousand to one chance that Prim was the randomly chosen girl from our district, the odds were most certainly not in our favor. But just as soon as it crosses my mind, the unhappy thought is lost in the sea of semi-conscious blackness and then nothing. Oblivion is a happy respite from the pain.

***

The next time I see Prim she’s on TV, the first of many appearances in the long procession of pre-Game coverage. She seems so far away that again I’m struck by the unreality of the situation. Around the television I’m flanked by my mother and Gale, each holding one of my hands with the intensity of a vicegrip. This will be our daily vigil for the next couple weeks until the Games are over, until we know her fate for sure. Around us are the rest of Gale’s family – his mother and younger siblings – and oddly, Buttercup, too. The mangy old tomcat that Prim was so fond of has belittled himself to make an appearance here with the rest of the family. Perhaps he feels the sadness in the room or he’s intelligent enough to know that it’s for her sake we are gathered. Either way, he is accepted into our vigil. Everything about the Games is mandatory viewing for all citizens of Panem, but tonight it is for Prim that we watch, not the Capitol.

The tributes are present in order, dressed by their stylists into decadent costumes that illuminate the major industry of each district. Twelve’s is coal mining so our costumes are usually lackluster, but tonight’s presentation is anything but. Prim and the male tribute appear in fitted dark jumpsuits that appear unimpressive until there is a spark and suddenly they are engulfed in bright red and orange tongues of flame. In our living room, we echo the gasp of the crowd on TV and for a moment no one dares to breathe… until we see their faces and arms reemerge. They are smiling and waving to the crowd and there is a unanimous exhale of relief, followed by joyous cries of delight. The announcer is almost beside himself with praise for the extravagant debut of Cinna and Portia, the stylists assigned to represent the tributes from District 12.

Something else strikes me about the presentation – the boy. I was so caught up in the loss of Prim that I never even found out who had been chosen beside her. But the visual of his name, Peeta Mellark, beside her sets off a new series of chain reactions in my heart. He is a boy from my grade who always had a funny way of popping up throughout my life when I needed him most. He has slipped me bread from his family’s bakery when we were starving, helped me with school assignments when I was dangerously close to failing them, and given me tips about households that were interested in buying the game that Gale and I caught. His interest in my wellbeing becomes more incontrovertible the more I think on it. We were friends, I tell myself, nothing more. But didn’t I think that Gale and I were only close friends until yesterday morning too? How naïve I have been about the people I thought I knew.

The next few days are filled with similar build-up as the field is examined and scrutinized and picked apart. All around the country, huge bets are taking place, probably more money than I'll ever see in my life. Prim's sudden valie as a long shot gives her life an ironic worth and I feel the hatred kindling in my heart again. I try my best just to focus on the extravagance on TV. I might go mad otherwise.

There are interviews with the stylists and their eccentric fashions, the escorts filled with praise about their tributes, the gamemakers who appear appropriately coy about the contents of the arena the tributes will encounter, and the more of the like. I have little mind for these festivities until they present the mentors. These are representatives from their corresponding districts, themselves victors from previous years of the Hunger Games. A dubious honor that accompanies the dubious honor of winning: becoming advisor to other misfortunates from your district, teach them and guide them, and then watch them die.

Ours is a man, Haymitch Abernathy, and if ever there was a more uninspiring candidate for the position of sole provider for our tributes inside the arena than he, I will eat my quiver. He appears distracted, eyes dull and skin pasty, effects of too much liquor and not enough sleep for the majority of his life. My heart sinks lower as Prim’s slim chances seem even worse with him as her lifeline. Following this are interviews with prominent sponsors and other notable characters in the Capitol but I can no longer follow the incessant coverage. Suddenly my only wish is for this fanfare to be over. I need the Games to begin so I can know – one way or the other – the outcome for the girl tribute form District 12. Not the tribute, my _sister_. Primrose Everdeen. The waiting is killing me slowly.

However, like most things I wish for, it cannot be so. There is still Training coverage to watch, where each tribute is given a score based on the skills they showed the gamemakers during their auditions. Prim surprises me by receiving an 8 out of 12 which means she outscores even some of the stronger, fitter tributes. Was it possible that this little girl I have been protecting for so long is not quite as innocent as I’ve given her credit for? The middle of the road score will look good for sponsors without making her an obvious target from the other tributes. My face remembers how to smile and for a fleeting moment I wonder if I was too critical of her ability. After all, it takes a certain strength and grit to live in Seam regardless of how young or good your heart might be. A swell of pride rises in me – and settles right next to the gripping fear.

The next evening is the interviews. There are all the tributes I’d expect to see, in a different order and from different districts than years before, but all in all, the same types of children I’ve seen in the past. There are quiet ones, loud ones, private ones, intelligent ones, all kinds. Most chilling are the strong, bloodthirsty ones from Districts 1, 2, and 4. Here in the Seam we call them Careers because they’ve spent their whole lives preparing for becoming a tribute. Apparently it’s quite an honor to represent those Districts in the Games. I cannot fathom ever living in a place that encourages this type of behavior, but it works. More often than not, the victor in the Games comes from these districts.

My musings are cut short when I see a tiny, innocent looking girl take the stage that I first mistake for Prim herself. But no, this girl’s name is Rue and she’s from District 11. Almost an exact copy of Prim herself, this girl has big bright eyes and a gown with shimmering, gossamer wings.  She looks almost ethereal and this image is accentuated by the way she flits from question to question with an intelligent and mysterious manner. For the first time I realize that these girls have a weapon the big, burly Careers could never dream of: elusiveness. They could use it to their advantage. It would be essential to their survival. Would it be enough?

If Rue was intangible in her costume, Prim is vibrant when she appears onstage. She wears a vivid orange dress that covers her slight frame from the neck to her ankles, but the soft shimmering material flows with her every movement and accentuates her image from the opening procession. Red and white gems cover the dress so that every move makes the colors ripple. It is like the dress is _alive_. I realize belatedly that she is on fire once more – they’ve made her appear to be a living flame. My heart leaps with joy for her and tears form in the corners of my eyes. I want to reach through the screen and touch her, hold her, tell her that I love her. I want to tell her how vivacious and brilliant she looks. Young, but tantalizingly alive. _Fiery_.

She holds her own during the interview but, to be honest, I don’t catch many of her actual words. I am gripping Mother and Gale’s hands to the point of extremity and I am lost in Prim’s eyes. It is remarkable how there is no pain or regret evident in them. There is an acceptance of her predicament but there is nothing resigned in her; there is fight in her eyes. Where did this girl come from? Or, and a pang resonates in my heart, was she there all along? Maybe I just didn't want to accept that my little Prim was starting to grow up, to grow into the world I wanted to protect her from.

Peeta is the last tribute to speak. He looks stunning in his coal black suit accented with the same red, orange, and white gems that give the flickering appearance of fire in certain light as well. He has a charm and wit about him, a cool confidence as he answers the interviewer’s questions. I realize that I’ve never noticed this about him before. The sting of regret resonates in me for the missed opportunity of knowing him better. It has to be a missed opportunity because for her sake, I cannot accept any other possibility than Prim being the lone survivor.

But then he says something that takes my breath away. The interviewer asks him what would be his most motivating force inside the arena. He doesn’t need to think about it. He looks deeply into the cameras and says, “My motivation will be to protect Primrose.” The interviewer’s eyebrows jet upward in surprise as do my own. “For Katniss,” Peeta explains. “I’m in love with Katniss Everdeen. I always have been, as long as I can remember, and it is my final wish to help bring her sister home for her.”

The world literally stops. It isn’t until the pounding in my chest begins that I realize I haven’t taken a breath in who knows how long. My eyes are glued to the screen as my mind reels trying to decipher this new information. Beside me I can feel Gale’s reproachful gaze locked on me but I don’t dare look at him. Instead I watch, paralyzed, as the Capitol crowd erupts in a frenzy. His time is up so they cannot ask him anymore questions. Was that intentional? I can’t help but feel it was and that he had been speaking, just now, directly to me. Peeta rejoins the tributes quietly and they file out of the studio while the crowd is still in an uproar.  

The interviewer tries his best to send off the coverage for the night but it’s hard to hear him over the din. I know how he feels because the pounding of my heart in my chest drowns out most of everything else. _Peeta and Prim_. What if I had been there and it was _Peeta and I_ on that stage tonight? Does this declaration help or hurt Prim with the others? And here, in the wake of this declaration, what do I do about Gale? My head is spinning and it’s too full of thought and emotion for what feels like the millionth time in less than a week. The television screen turns to the still image of Panem’s seal and I quickly excuse myself from the room. My mother and Gale watch me go without a word, or if there are words, I don’t hear them.


	2. The Games Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obligated to echo the archive warning here that violence factor is about to ramp up significantly throughout the remainder of this story. Although... it is the Hunger Games, so I kinda have to expect you knew what you were signing up for. :)

I’ve only ever watched the Games from home before. I’ve never seen it as anything other than a sad reality of life until now when every moment strikes me… I almost think, _like a dagger in the heart_ , before I stop myself. That could be a reality for Prim now and that thought freezes my breath inside me.

Right now the elevator to the arena is sliding up its dark shaft to deposit her on the thick grey circular disc that serves at the starting point for each tribute in the arena. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be where she is, alone with her thoughts and heart thrumming. With each second they’re kept in limbo turning into its own eternity, or, do they fly by before she knows it it's passed? What’s going on her head right now?

From my vantage point, safely at home, I watch as the announcers give us an overview of the beautiful and deadly arena the gamemakers have prepared this year. There is a vast section of woodland, an expansive lake, and a low-lying field full of thick, tall rushes that could easily hide even the largest of tributes. And in the exact center of the arena lies, as always, the Cornucopia. It is a massive golden horn that houses the only supplies the tributes are given within the arena – supplies that they must fight each other for. The closer to the center the package lies, the more important the item is and the bigger the advantage it is to the wielder. Each tribute is spaced equally distant from the horn so each faces the same risk poses by the wealth before them.

I wonder whether Prim has any chance of reaching something worthwhile with her speed when the gong rings. They are released. Most of the tributes take off toward the center but Prim does not. She runs in the full opposite direction of the Cornucopia, down along the lake’s edge before disappearing into the thick foliage of the forest. She will be at a disadvantage without weapons and food supplies but it is hard to fault her as the bloodbath ensues. Every so often a cannon blast echoes across the field and across the airwaves as a signal to all that another tribute has perished. Despite myself, I watch with interest as the tributes battle each other and ruthlessly end each other’s life in the fight for the precious supplies.

It is hours later when the violence around the Cornucopia finally dies down. The Capitol’s cameras have been glued to this area because of all the gruesome detail to show. Twelve tributes in all – half the field – died in the struggle. In the recap for the viewing audience we are shown pictures of each tribute and the grisly way they met their end. Most of the Careers have survived, as predicted, though one died later from wounds inflicted during the battle. Both tributes from Districts 3, 6, 7, and 9 are dead. Assorted casualties from other districts. Not Rue though and thankfully neither Prim nor Peeta.

My heart relaxes a minute amount. Prim has survived the first trial. Now we begin to see camera shots of the surviving tributes. The Careers are assembled in a pack, reclining and even relaxing with the spoils of the Cornucopia. And with them is… could it be? Peeta! He is too close not to be allied with them but this doesn’t make any sense at all. How can he claim to protect Prim while allying himself with the tributes that pose the biggest threat to her? What could he have said to them to gain their trust after declaring his intentions during the interviews?

They show a close up of Peeta arranging a bright yellow backpack with water skins, packages of food and some sturdy looking daggers. Quite a few daggers actually, some longer and curved for close combat, some short and stocky for throwing. He joins the other tributes and they make a bonfire to roast some flanks of raw meat. I’m filled with a sharp hatred of their confidence. The odds always seem to be in their favor.

The cameras pan elsewhere. Rue has skillfully hidden herself high in a tree. She has wrapped the branches around her in a tight though natural-looking nest. It will not protect her from the chill of the night but it will at least provide a break for the wind and shelter from the hunting Careers this night. Her fellow District 11 tribute Thresh is shown deep in the reeds of the meadow. He’s tending some wounds he received during the Cornucopia battle but looks like he has received a healthy dose of supplies. He has a backpack, a sleeping bag, a waterskin and some assorted weapons including, aptly, a scythe.

The other surviving tributes don’t strike me in any particular way. They are alive which speaks to their cunning or their physical prowess but I can’t pretend that I’m glad for it. Only one tribute can survive. As long as they live, they stand in the way of Prim’s survival. It must all come down to that in the end.

Finally, they focus on Prim herself. She looks tired, weary from a day of traveling through the wilderness. Unlike for me, woodland is unfamiliar territory for her. There are dark circles under her eyes and I know immediately what she’s doing. She needs water. More than food and at least as important as shelter, she needs water to survive and her search must continue until she find some. I will my thoughts and encouragement to her from far away. I need not have worried though for Prim is more resourceful than anyone has given her credit for.

She stops, resolved to take a short break. No sooner does she sit down when her eyes spot something. In a flash she’s run over and kneels beside some shoots of a thick, dark green plant. _Waterwillow_ , I think. _Way to go, Prim_! She breaks one of the shoots at its base and tips it back into her open mouth. The liquid is but a trickle out of the broken base but its water. Better than that, it’s sugar water to restore a sliver of the energy she's used today. I turn to Gale beside me and he wraps his arms around me. We give in to a moment of happiness at her success, and tantalizing hope materializes in us. In the background, Prim drinks her fill from the tender plants.

The night is closing in by now and I know she feels the urgency of a new purpose. The cameras follow her as she prepares a night resting spot in a tight enclosure between two large trunks and an outcropping of rocks. Using underbrush and some broken limbs full of leaves she crafts a cozy little nest for herself. That’s where she spends the night, sleeping more soundly than perhaps is advisable but her shelter holds. Even though the Career pack tracks down two more tributes and, at one point, passes within two dozen yards of her resting spot, little Prim lives through the night.

Can I still refer to her as my little sister? The girl before me in the forest is not the frail, tenderly innocent soul I have known in my house. In her place there is a cunning, resourceful girl who has overcome the odds set against her. I sleep in Gale's arms that night, both of us dozing off in front of the TV. In my dreams there are girls and announcers and daggers in my hands. I run through the woods yelling, “May the odds be ever in your favor!” to Prim but I never seem to find her. The odds aren’t, of course, but maybe she is on her way to making her own luck somehwere out there.

***

There is a stalemate for three days. Aside from some bickering between the Careers from Districts 1 & 2, there has been little action to appease the viewers in the Capitol. The knot of tension has returned to the pit in my stomach as I wait for something to happen.

The fourth morning of the Games dawns bright and blue and not a cloud floats above them in the sky. The camera shows Prim emerging from her nighttime nest and beginning her daily search for food. Her first gift, delivered by silver parachute by Haymitch via the sponsors, is a small mesh bag which is perfect for holding berries and keeping them fresh in the heat. I’m impressed by how fast she has adapted to arena life and the veritable buffet that lies in the woodland. The gift is evidence that I’m not the only one. My mother’s not surprised though, mentioning how often she sent Prim out to gather supplies for her home medical practice while I was out hunting. Here I thought she just went out to sell her goat milk and cheese. Mother smiles wanly.

We watch Prim gathering nuts and berries when there’s a slight rustle above her. She whips around and in a flash has a dagger in hand. But when the figure drops down and into full view Prim lowers her weapon to her side. Prim even flashes a small smiles at the sight of Rue walking up to her. Neither seem the least bit afraid of each other and Rue stretches out a palm to offer Prim two of the eggs she just gathered. The two girls crack them open and eat them raw. And with that offer, without words of any kind, an alliance is born. Why shouldn’t the two youngest and perhaps most vulnerable of the field join forces?

I wonder fleetingly if either one knew the other was there before they came together. Did they watch and wait, just to be sure there wouldn’t be any danger? This is only one tragedy among many, that one should be wary of such sweet faces and bright brown eyes.

Together the harvesting goes faster since one can keep vigilance for the other and I marvel again at their ingenuity. But the pleasant morning lull doesn’t last long. Suddenly a tree just to their right bursts into flame. The girls leap back, astonished. Two more trees go up before they realize what is happening – it is a gamemaker-induced trap.

“Run Rue!” Prim shouts and the two take off. What nuts they had in their hands get stuffed into the small pack Rue holds but the rest is dropped, forgotten, in their wake. They run as fast as they can but their strides are short and it’s all they can do to keep ahead of the incendiary trees. The creeping smoke swirls around their feet and infiltrates their lungs making them cough. Prim begins to stumble and my eyes grow wide. _Don’t stop running!_ I shout to her in my mind. Off in the distance, a cannon fires – another tribute dead.

The camera pans away from the two girls and I’m furious. I don’t care who it was that died! I need to know what’s going on with Prim! But I can’t control the Capitol’s cameras anymore than I can control the Games themselves. And it turns out that I _am_ interested in what happened on the soem other side of the arena. What I see in the death recap is Peeta’s abandonment of the Career pack.

It seems that the Careers were also in the woods when the trees alighted. This is a classic choice by the gamemakers because they always try to capture as many tributes in their premade traps as possible. It’s impossible to know exactly how close they were to Prim and Rue when it happened but it’s clear that the trap surprised them just as much as the girls. The four tributes – from Districts 1 & 2 – take off at once, their instincts fine tuned for avoidance of traps like this. The boy from 4 falters though and in the confusion Peeta leaps on his back. He tries to call for help but Peeta slits his throat in a flash and he crumples to the ground.

 _Peeta killed him_. This thought staggers my mind. Kind, eloquent Peeta turned ruthless before my very eyes. He tears off through the woods to escape the fires but my eyes remain fixated on the boy from 4. His body spasms twice before the flames leap up around and begin to consume him. This death strikes me profoundly and not only because it was a boy that _I knew_ who killed him. Usually when a tribute dies, their body is collected and sent back to its district for some kind of farewell and burial. But as I watch the petrol-fueled flames surround and eat away at his tender young flesh I know that it will not be so. There will be so little left of him after the flames die I doubt they would bring the hovercraft in to collect the remains. Tears brim in my eyes for him and his unknown family, for the burial that will never be. I don’t even remember his name.

The camera leaves the burning boy after his cannon sounds. Instead it turns to the opposite side of the arena where we see a flaming figure burst out of the grain meadow. Apparently the gamemakers set off blazes throughout the outskirts of the entire arena in an effort to drive the remaining tributes together. But this was different than the fire in the woods – Thresh had been doomed from the start. With the hot, arid days before, the meadow of reeds he hid himself in had dried itself into kindling. And when the fires exploded around him, the entire meadow went up in a heartbeat. Thresh somehow made it out into the open once more and at first it seemed he wanted to reach the lake. But it was too far away and the fire too pervasive.

He fell to his knees and rolled in the dirt in a last ditch attempt to stifle the flames. He managed to extinguish most of the flames but the damage had already been done. I feel sickened as the camera shows a close-up of the broken, burned boy laying on the ground softly moaning between black and cracked lips. I close my eyes praying for the sound of the cannon blast, but it doesn’t come. And it doesn’t come, but the camera doesn’t break away either; there’s only this horrifying limbo. Next to me Gale squeezes my hand. Behind Thresh, the meadow still burns, crackling and smoking but it is rendered irrelevant to the tragedy on the ground. After what seems like an eternity, Thresh stops moving. And it’s longer still until the cannon sounds that announces his departure from this earth.

The cannon breaks the paralysis of my horror. I leap from my seat and run to the television to turn it off. The set rocks with the force when I hit the switch. What else can I do? “It’s not fair!” I scream. “He didn’t even have a chance to survive that trap!”

Gale makes an attempt to put his arms around me but I push him away. “Don’t touch me! What if that was Prim?! What if she survived all this time just to be outright killed by the gamemakers?”

Gale drops his eyes. My mother won't meet my gaze. No one seems to know what to say except for, “They usually don’t try to kill the tributes themselves.”

“Well, what does it matter?” I yell, my fury and my anguish bubbling over me in ragged gasps. “Whether they die in the gamemakers’ hands or the tributes’ hands? They’re still dead, Gale!  They’re just _children_ and they’re all going to be dead!”

This time I let his arms come around me. I sob against his chest and claw at his shirt. The hope I’ve held in my heart for Prim turns to ashes in the wake of powerful Thresh’s death. My catharsis is cut short by a sharp rap on the door. Gale and I turn to face it but our bodies are frozen in place. It’s my mother who gets up to answer the door. Two distinguished men in sharp black suits and a woman holding a camera stand at the door.

I listen as they explain to her that, with Thresh’s death, we have entered the Final Eight. Tomorrow, they will air interviews with each remaining tribute’s friends and families. Have they been staked out on my doorstep waiting for the word that one more tribute had died? Or, more depressingly, had they arrived knowing that the fire trap was about to set and that it was designed to narrow the field to eight or below?

I quickly wipe the tears from my face as they begin talking to mother and Gale. Despite their obvious concern for Prim, they do their best to talk highly of her and promote their confidence in the skills she’s shown in the arena. They’re always been better at thinking rationally and putting on a game face than I am. _Eight_ , I think while they are talking. It’s only been a handful of days and we’ve already reached the final third of the tributes. There’s both tributes from District 1 left (I’m reminded their names are Marvel & Glimmer), both from 2 (Cato and Clove), a girl from District 8 (Olive), and then Rue, Peeta, and finally Prim.

When it’s my turn for the interview I’m having trouble focusing. I nod my head ‘yes’ or shake it ‘no’ depending on their question but I have little to say. The men exchange a glance and don’t even try to hide their motion for the woman to wrap things up. I’m not giving them any good footage for their special. I don’t know if this is scripted or she’s desperate for some type of interesting material from me because the woman’s last questions are, “Katniss, did Peeta ever confess his love for you before the interview? Maybe when you said goodbye to him on the day of the Reaping? Did you ask him to watch out for Prim for you?”

My mouth gapes open and I’m conscious of Gale’s eyes on me again from across the room. He doesn’t like this insinuation that something exists between Peeta and me, or that I was even aware of his affections before he announced them over national television.

“I… I didn’t… get to say goodbye to Peeta,” I stammer. But I can't very well explain why, can I? My mind draws a blank even worse than before.

Then a thought hits me. They televise the delivery of gifts either in real-time or in replay and Prim has been the recipient of a number of timely donations. I haven’t seen any for Peeta. Was this the angle they meant to play? Or did Haymitch have to decide between the two? Did Peeta specify that any support he received from sponsors was to go to Prim instead? And then it all makes sense to me. He had to align himself with the Careers to get supplies because he knew he wasn’t going to receive anything from Haymitch. He was keeping his promise. He really was trying to keep Prim alive… for me.

I become aware again that the camera still trained on me. I need to say something – to validate Peeta’s sacrifice and show my support for Prim. But I also need to do it in a way that doesn’t alienate Gale from me. No pressure. “I spent the whole time allotment with Prim,” I tell the reporter. “So I never got to say goodbye officially to Peeta.”

“But I did receive a letter from him, when he was in the Capitol and before the Games started." The lie sounded so good as I spoke and the words started tumbling out. It was like my heart actually believed it was true, a thought both comforting and troubling as I spun my tale. "He said he was sorry for never telling me before how he felt before and apologized for the shock of hearing it on television. He explained that he never said anything to me in person because he… he knew how I felt about someone else I was close to.” I glance over to Gale and he smiles shyly. “So I want to take this opportunity to tell Peeta how much it means to me. How much _everything_ means to me. If things were different… well, I would be honored to have him here with me. And I will never forget his efforts to keep Prim alive; it means more to me than I could ever express.”

“I know he won’t be able to hear this, but all of Panem will and that will have to be good enough. Thank you, Peeta, with all my heart.” As an afterthought, I blow a little kiss to the camera as unforced tears shine in my eyes. And I’m not the only one.

I think I played it right. The very next night Prim receives another gift in the form of a tiny parachute. Inside it are a dozen smooth round slingshot pellets. It’s not obvious what makes them special, but she knows as I do that they must be. Sponsor gifts are rarely just for show. To my surprise, Peeta also receives a parachute that night. Inside it is a singular piece of paper, folded and tied with a silky red ribbon. He pulls out a tiny flashlight from his pack to see what’s written on it. The camera has to zoom up incredibly close to read the printed words dimly illuminated in the flashlight beam. It takes a full minute for them to register with me. What I am reading are my own words; Haymitch has sent him a transcript of my interview. The flashlight in Peeta’s hand shakes more noticably as he reads it and then rereads it. Finally he snaps his light off to try to hide his emotion from the cameras in the arena.


	3. The Animals Within

Two days pass without incident. I know the gamemakers will get involved with another arena trap unless something exciting happens soon. And that won’t be good for Prim, I’m sure, so I find myself hoping it’s the Career pack that takes the hit. There have been arguments within their ranks – cracks begin to show in the perfect sheen of their armor. But when something _does_ happen, I instantly wish I hadn’t hoped for anything at all.

It happens when Prim and Rue are out gathering again. Prim is snapping the caps off edible mushrooms when Rue motions with her hand. She’s heard something behind them. For a moment they are frozen, like deer in the morning mist. They stand stark still and pinpoint aware as they divine any source of the noise. Rue unholsters her slingshot. Silently, Prim slips her a few of the silver pellets before retrieving her own daggers out of the bag. The silence is broken as, out of the cover of trees, comes Marvel with his sword charging at the two girls.

I gasp for them; the sight of the massive seventeen-year-old boy and his heavy two-handed sword is intimidating. Rue has steel nerves though and aims a shot to his neck. It connects and the little pellet explodes in a hot flash and a puff of gas envelopes his head. He coughs and the sword droops. Another pop and a pellet strikes him in one eye. Now his sword clatters to the ground and he screams in agony, the impact and the heat searing his eye in its socket.

Sweeping in from behind Prim and Rue, Glimmer appears. She is launching throwing knives across the expanse haphazardly and they seem as likely to hit her partner as they are to hit the girls. But they don’t hit Marvel. Prim voices the scream inside my head as two knives lodge almost simultaneously in Rue’s back. She stumbles forward a half-step and coughs, a strange gurgling noise from her chest, before sinking to her knees, eyes overly wide with surprise and shock. There is no time to come to her aid though and Prim wheels around to face the rushing Glimmer. At the last moment before impact, the attacking girl gets knocked unexpectedly to the side.

There’s a struggle on the forest floor as a boy wrestles with Glimmer. Both are armed with curved combat daggers and there are shouts and yelps of pain as they cut each other. I see Marvel before Prim does. She’s still standing in the same place, frozen with fear and trying to decide how to help the boy who saved her without getting cut by the slashing blades herself. Only at the last moment she hears Marvel’s grunt of effort and she jumps to the side to avoid being impaled by his sword. His momentum propels him forward past her. One foot lands awkwardly onto some slingshot pellets that have fallen out of Prim’s pocket and he loses his balance.

“Peeta! Watch out!” Prim screams. Of course! It is Peeta who has come to Prim’s defense once again. Marvel flails his free arm futilely trying to gain purchase on the empty air. Instead he falls forward, the sword stabs downward as he falls on top of the two struggling tributes. Peeta rolls to the side just in time and there’s a piercing scream in his wake. It doesn't take long for the cannon to sound.

Marvel stumbles to his feet, staggering back from the horror he has inflicted on his ally Glimmer. The heavy sword is lodged cruelly in her chest and her mouth is frozen, twisted in a now silent scream. In his shock, he has left himself vulnerable and Prim launches onto him burying her own daggers into his back. It’s bad form, hitting him in two areas that aren’t immediately lethal but in the heat of the moment it’s hard to think very rationally, especially for one so new to combat. It is enough to incapacitate him, at least until Peeta staggers onto his feet and limps over to the wounded boy. He pulls the daggers out of Marvel’s back and tosses them aside. With a grunt of effort he rolls the boy over on his stomach and cringes. There is blood flowing freely from his mouth and the ugly wound that used to be one of his eyes. From the other, tears run down his dusty cheek, highlighting the wretched misery he finds himself in. I don’t think it’s only his physical wounds that pain him. Peeta grimaces against the sight before bringing himself to slit the boy’s throat. Although it is gruesome, I cannot help but think of it as an act of mercy at this point. He closes the boy's good eye as a cannon fires above them. Peeta sinks to his knees again trying to catch his breath. He motions with his head for Prim to attend to Rue.

 _Rue_.

Prim cries out again as she runs to Rue’s side. The little girl looks tinier than ever laying there in the dust. Prim kneels over top of her and brushes the hair out of her face. Rue’s eyes are glassy and her chest struggles for breath. Peeta hobbles over, his eyes filled with sadness. There is nothing they can do for her. Peeta sits down next to her and they form a ring; Prim and Peeta each hold one of Rue’s hands and they hold each other’s. I watch them, wishing desperately that Haymitch could send them something miraculous but nothing arrives. The three of them sit locked there, solemn and silent until the cannon blast rings out for Rue. And then a little while afterward too.

Peeta eventually rises and nudges Prim to join him. I know they need to say goodbye so the hovercrafts can collect little Rue’s body but it’s obvious that neither wants to. Prim gives her one last hug and then, as an afterthought, picks up the slingshot that has fallen beside her. The stagger away, Peeta limping from his injuries and Prim from the shock of what has transpired.

Somehow they find their way back to the little outcropping of rocks that Prim uses at a home base. It’s only then that she realizes how badly hurt Peeta is. He has a dozen jagged cuts and scratches over his arms and face and one pant leg is steeped in blood. She eases him into a comfortable position to tackle the injury and cuts away the ragged, bloody fabric. A long, deep gash splits the top of his left thigh. My mother, the neighborhood physician, besides me gasps as it’s revealed and that’s how I know it’s bad.

To Prim’s credit though, she doesn’t shy away from the injury. Instead, she pours some water from her skin onto clean linen and begins to clean the wound with the gentle touch she’s learned from Mother. Thankfully Peeta is well supplied from his stint with the Careers and he directs her to bandages, antiseptic and even a splint in his backpack. She cleans and dresses the wound with care. The one thing they don’t have is painkillers and Peeta grits his teeth stoically trying to hold back the pain. In turn, he helps clean the drying blood from her hands and face.

The poise and the tenacity they have shown in the last hour are remarkable. I picture myself there instead and try to convince myself that I’d show the same level of bravery and dedication, but in the end my conviction falters. I have never been one for sentimentality or compassion and there's a nagging feeling in the back of my brain that I'd be more like Marvel, rushing wild with a sword than like Prim, biding my time and making allies. But how could I know for sure? How can anyone know how they will react to dire straits until they face the moment itself?

Before they settle down for the night, Prim goes out to gather once more. She collects additional foliage to protect them and a couple handfuls of berries that they eat with crackers and dried beef strips for dinner. Huddled together in the small space, it seems relatively warm and cozy though neither of them are eager for sleep tonight. Peeta sits up tentatively and runs a hand over his thigh.

“You did an excellent job with this dressing, Prim.” She thanks him but her eyes remain fixed far away in thought. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Was today your first kill?”

She nods, a single tear escaping down her cheek. He reaches over and wipes it away. “It was hard for me too,” he says. “I killed the boy from District 4 when the Careers took off from the fire. But I kept seeing his face, seeing the terror in his eyes as he sank to the ground. No matter where I ran to, I couldn’t get away from it.”

He puts an arm around her and she rests her head against him. I long to be there for her, to hold her and to let her cry herself to sleep like I used to do when she was young. I was her comfort when the world was a scary place. Having Peeta there beside her now, stroking her hair as she curled up against him, offering her the most comfort he could… well, it would have to be enough. And somehow, it was. I almost thought Prim had slid off to sleep when her voice came from the darkness. “Peeta? Did you really love my sister?”

“I did,” he says, and the trace of regret is gone from his voice. “I still do. I meant what I said during the interview. I meant all of it.”

“You still want to protect me? Even though there’s only four of us left?”

"Of course I do!" He sat up straight and faced her. “I’m more determined than ever now that we’re – you’re – so close to winning this thing.”

“But what about you? You have people to live for back home too…” He cut her off with a gentle touch.

“Your life has just begun, Prim. You shouldn’t even be here right now, but in the short time we have been together in this nightmare I’ve seen more courage, determination, and love of life in you than anyone else here. Sure, I’ve been in love with Katniss ever since I met her, but I want to save you for _you,_ too.”  He fumbled around for his backpack and when he found it, opened up a small pouch that was protected in the back. He pulls out a delicate red flower and the tiny flashlight. Using the light he fastens the flower in Prim’s hair, just behind her ear. “As it turns out, strength and beauty run in your family.”

Prim bit her lip with emotion. “What is it?”

“It’s a rose. There was a tiny bush of them over where the lake meets up with the wood. The bush itself was probably lost in the fires, but I kept one to give to you when we met up again. Everyone calls you Prim, but I’ve always personally thought you looked more like a Rosie to me.”

And with that, she throws her arms around him. “Thank you, Peeta.”

The camera pans away from them after that exchange. I’m pretty sure though that they spent the rest of the night huddled up together like that, waiting for the morning to dawn on them once more. It was, without question, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen during the Hunger Games.

***

Four. There are four tributes left – Cato and Clove from District 2 and Peeta and Prim from 12. The morning coverage is replete with recaps of each tribute from the pre-Game coverage and key moments throughout the arena time. There is also a special breakdown of the kills that each of the surviving tributes has contributed to or finished personally. Peeta has three to his credit, Prim the one. Clove and Cato are leading in the arena so far with nine and eleven respectively. They must have worked together for most of those, I think wretchedly, for those totals seem almost inhuman. The shiver of fear in me renews itself. Even with Peeta by her side, Prim will need a miracle to survive against those two.

And a miracle does not seem to be on the agenda when they wake from their cave. Overnight, it appears that all the liquid from the forest has been evaporated; there is not even a drop of dew hanging on a leaf. This is most likely gamemaker interference or even a full-on trap again. Either way, it makes the choice of activity for the day a nonquestion. Peeta and Prim will have to backtrack to the lake, the lone source of fresh water left. And if all four are heading toward the lake, the stage has been set for the final showdown.

They walk on in silence for a bit before Peeta pulls out the remaining crackers and beef strips. He hands most of them to Prim. She doesn’t want to eat them, wants to hoard them for later like always but he is insistent. He doesn’t quite meet her eyes when he tells her that he’s sure this is last day they will see in the arena.

The water they drink sparingly as they hike through the forest, but the food is quickly gone. In fact, Peeta clears most of the nonessential or medical supplies from his pack. In the distance, they can see the sunlight breaking through the thinning trees, the beginning of the end of the forest. Before they go farther, Prim asks him to fix the rose in her hair once more. He uses a bit of wire to fasten it tightly and then kisses her cheek lightly. They are ready to make their stand.

Before they have the chance to begin again, there is a deadly howl that reverberates through the woods. Follow by another, and then another. And a cannon shot. Peeta and Prim exchange one slightly panicked glance before they take off toward the break in the trees. Suddenly they are almost bowled over by the massive form of Cato, heedless of them in his way. The three momentarily forget that they are at odds with one another as they take flight from the terror pursuing them. Prim tries her best to keep up with the two older boys but she still falls behind. Peeta slows down to wait for her but she shakes her head instead. “I’ve got an idea!” She yells as she waves him on ahead.

She leaps up into a tree via a low-hanging branch. Then she begins swinging from tree branch to tree branch, her small form hanging and jumping between them with ease. This must have been a trick that Rue showed her, I think happily, and she’s actually moving faster than the boys this way. She doesn’t get tripped up by brush and tree roots like they do.

But the end of the forest is quickly approaching. Peeta manages a glance backward as the baying and yelping closes in on them. That’s when I get my first full glimpse of the predators as well. They are huge, vicious, snarling wolves. But they aren’t just wolves because they stand a full four feet at the shoulders and have razor sharp projections of fangs and claws. They are muttations, the Capitols’ genetic mutants that they raise to be part monster, part weapon. Originally they were used during war times, but now they like to insert them into Hunger Games once and a while to see how tributes deal with them. My stomach turns over in fear at the sight of their froth-lathered jaws within inches of Peeta’s legs.

Cato pulls a small flare out of his pack and snaps off the instant light cap. He tosses it back at the pack and when it explodes the wolves stumble slightly over it. It buys them all just enough time.

“Prim!” Peeta screams up at her. “When you get to the last tree, jump! I’ll catch you!”

But as they approach the clearing, Peeta steps awkwardly on a broken branch and his leg goes out from under him. Prim is still swinging full speed. My heart skips a beat at the thought of her flying off into nothing. Escaping all this way only to break her legs upon impact with the ground. As she lets go of the tree, Cato breaks through the line and she lands ungracefully on his head and shoulders. He lets out an astonished cry and looks momentarily perplexed; he’s torn between prying the wriggling girl from his back and continuing his flight from the wretched beasts. In the end, his terror of the wolves wins out and Prim rides along, hanging on for dear life.

They need to get to higher ground and fast, I think. I can see the wolves gaining ground on them again and my heart sinks. How long could they keep running full tilt like this? They must be slowing down. That’s when I see it appear onscreen – the Cornucopia. The massive golden horn leaps up from the ground at its base and the mouth extends fifteen or twenty feet into the air. It would be high enough that the wolves couldn’t follow.

The tributes pull the last of their flagging strength to make the last desperate dash to the horn. Five hundred feet… one hundred feet… fifty… Prim suddenly makes a move. She pulls herself up so she’s nearly kneeling on Cato’s wide shoulders. He rocks his head up toward her just in time for her to dig her feet into his sides and propel herself forward. The effect is two-fold; she leaps off him and up onto the horn while simultaneously impelling him backward. He falls back and lands on his behind looking dazed. His feet are no longer underneath him, and why isn’t he still moving forward? He appears, in that moment, more childlike than any of the Careers so far and I remember that he is only my age. He is no more of a monster or a born killer than I am.

Cato scrambles to his feet as Peeta rushes by him, fast as his injured leg will allow, and somehow he drags himself up onto the horn. Cato is only a few seconds behind now but that delay makes all the difference. The wolves are upon him with a ferocious bloodthirst. It consumes their attention enough to allow Peeta and Prim to climb higher eventually making it out of reach of the beasts. There’s a moment where I need to turn away from the TV as they show the horror on Cato’s face in the moment the wolves grab him with their jaws. I hear the crunch of bones and smell the warm scent of blood even though I’m only watching an image on a screen. The look in Cato’s eyes is enough.


	4. The Lone Rose

Prim and Peeta. Peeta and Prim. It plays over and over in my mind but repetition does not make it feel any more like reality. There is only him to keep her from coming home to me, and he has already promised to see her through to the end. I want to give in to the hope that is bursting in my heart, but I cannot. Until I can embrace her, until I can feel her soft, tender skin beneath my arms once more I cannot breathe a word of my hope to another. Gale sits rigidly next to me as he has throughout the Games. I think he knows, he can feel it too, but we don’t discuss it. None of dare to say it aloud. Instead I focus more intently than ever on the events being played out on the screen before me.

They are together on top of the Cornucopia. For a long time, there is silence. Maybe they are thinking the same things that I am right now, but I can’t help wondering if it’s the others that have crept into their minds: The tributes that are gone, so that they might live. Peeta is lying to one side, exhausted from his efforts and still panting hard for breath. Prim dangles her legs over the edge and watches the circling wolves underneath her. Rue’s slingshot is in her hand and every once and awhile there is a pop and a flash of light as she lets a pellet go into the crowd. A wolf yelps and retreats but there is always another to take its place. And I can’t imagine she has many more of those special pellets left anyway.

I don’t know how long they’ve been up there by now. Time is irrelevant. We are all holding our breath to see what will happen with the final two. Usually there is a dramatic showdown with specially designed and delivered weapons or a bloody fist fight to the end. But the two allies from District 12 create an entirely different kind of tension in the air. Everyone in Panem is waiting to see if Peeta will keep his promise.

Finally Prim breaks the silence. “What do we do now, Peeta?”

She glances over to where he lays and he laughs feebly. I notice during the close-up that there’s an unhealthy olive tinge to his skin and perspiration lines his face in fine droplets. “You win, Rosie.”

Her face crumples in anxiety. “You’re still alive, Peeta,” she whispers.

He coughs in response and motions with his head down to his injured leg. The wrappings around his thigh are caked with dark brown blood. She crawls over to him and for a minute they curl up next to each other like they did in the cave. Then she sets to work. She unwraps his leg bandages with the intent of redressing it but the sight of it exposed causes her to freeze completely instead. The wound is little more than a massive gasping chasm of tissue. He has injured it more with their sprint through the forest than Glimmer’s dagger did initially. But worse than the ragged gash is the unpleasant shade of green the tissue around the tear has become.

“Isn’t pretty, is it?” Peeta asks. Prim can only look at him with red, watery eyes. “It’s some kind of poison or at least I think it is. I know Glimmer got a vial of something wicked from the Cornucopia that she put on her blades.” He has to stop to cough again, and it causes his whole body to vibrate. "It's what got that one boy on the first night. She tested it on him to see how lethal it was."

 _Lethal enough to kill within a day_ , is what he means. All of us echo the look of shock and sadness we find on Prim's gentle features.

“Why did you…?” Prim begins, but she is at a loss for words, staring at the broken boy before her. “You never told me that part.”

“You wouldn’t want to go if you knew how badly I’d been hurt.” He smiles sadly at her. “And I had to get you here. I had to help you win.”

I watch helplessly as Prim takes her light jacket off and covers Peeta from the waist down. The camera pans down as she notices Peeta’s dagger lying beside him, rather like an invitation. She stares at it and then pushes it aside. She sits next to him, gently laying his head in her lap. As she strokes his soft, sandy hair she says, “I’m not going to kill you Peeta. I can’t.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t… have to.”

And then she cries. Openly and unabashedly she cries because it doesn’t matter if she shows weakness anymore. It doesn’t matter if she is strong or a good hunter or elusive or anything anymore. The only thing that matters is the boy in her arms, the last remnants of his life slipping away through her fingers. He whispers something to her that is too faint to hear. She has to lean down and put her ear right up against his lips to make out the words. When she lifts her face again, her expression is unreadable.

And in that moment I see my sister again, the real Primrose Everdeen: the twelve year old girl, the healer, the giver, the fragile young soul. And beside her is the boy that I can never think of as just the baker’s son anymore – the one who gave my family bread when we were in danger of starving. Today he has given us something more precious than I have words to describe.

A cannon sounds in the open air.

***

It is another full week before I see Prim again. We are all there on the train platform to welcome her home to District 12. She smiles at the sight of us and we wrap her in our arms so tightly she has to remind us that she needs to breathe. But beneath the glossy exterior, beneath the clothes and makeup and perfume she wears for the media, she is not happy. How could she be? It will take time... I hope it will only take time.

I’m trying hard not to be selfish in the face of so much sacrifice, but it is difficult. Even a fraction of Prim’s winnings could last the rest of our lives. Our family will want for nothing. Neither will Gale’s. And Prim will oversee the distribution of wealth throughout the District I’m sure. After five years of daily struggling to survive and living off my wits, my days of being the sole provider for the family are over. The sudden wealth is intoxicating but it is also bittersweet. I’m not so blind that I can ignore or gloss over the cost of the treasures before us. It is only too clear that there is a part of Prim that has been cut off from us, perhaps forever. More and more, I am becoming sure that no fame or fortune is worth the price she had to pay for it.

When it is finally over, when we have moved into the lavish homes reserved for victors’ families, when the last camera leaves, and when we are truly alone, Prim sits down beside me. I give her the hug I have been waiting to give her for three months. Not the suffocating embrace where I think she’s a mirage, or the tearful and comforting one when she screams in the night; it is the quiet, reassuring hug where I feel every part of her skin and I feel her soul and I truly know that Prim, my most precious Prim, is home at last. When we break, I can’t help noticing that her eyes are wide and brown and beautiful as they have always been. She tells me there is one thing left for her to do.

I follow her upstairs to her room, to where rows of unopened boxes and gifts lay scattered on the floor, untouched. Her clothing from the Capitol and the luxurious wool coat she wore home has been sitting on the same chair since she arrived in this house. She walks over and lifts the coat from its resting spot. Underneath it, there is a small wooden box. She checks to make sure the door is closed and we are truly alone. Then she hands me the box.

I am confused for a moment until she motions for me to open it. The box springs open easily on its hinges and it’s lined with crushed purple velvet. Lying on the plush fabric is the rose. Its petals are bent and folded and most of them are turning brown after all this time, but it is unmistakable. I draw a sharp breath in, astonished at the amount of its original beauty the flower has retained through these months. My fingers trail over the stem, the leaves, and finally to the petals themselves. I hold the box up and catch the tiniest waft of fragrance from the flower. It brings tears to my eyes.

“Peeta wanted me to give this to you,” Prim tells me, her own voice trembling slightly with emotion. “He said to tell you he sent home your Rose. And along with it, he sends his love.” 


End file.
